Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
S t. Thomas Hospital sat like a stalwart fortress directly across the Thames from the Houses of Parliament. As Leo crossed the Westminster Bridge on foot and came about onto Lambeth Road, nervousness bubbled in the pit of her stomach. Then again, it might have just been the undercooked eggs she’d served for breakfast. Attempting not to char them this morning, she’d taken them from the hob too soon. All in all, she thought she might prefer them blackened. Mrs. Shaw had come to see out her final week with Flora, as promised, but she’d been later than usual, and quiet and distant when Leo and Claude had left for the day.
While arranging for their neighbor’s son, Liam, who often ran messages and errands for Claude, to go to the Telegraph and place their advert for a new day nurse, Leo had a stroke of inspiration. The letter Miss Barrett had been carrying in her reticule that had helped to identify her, had, in fact, been a letter of character from the matron at St. Thomas Hospital. Leo reasoned that the hospital had been her place of employment—or at least her most recent employment. With Jasper refusing to give her the file on Miss Barrett’s accident, she couldn’t know what had occurred on Trafalgar Square, but there was still an opportunity to learn more about Miss Barrett in general—and why a convicted felon might have desired her locket. Someone at St. Thomas Hospital might be persuaded to gossip.
Presenting herself at the hospital truthfully, as a city coroner’s assistant who had observed the postmortem on Miss Barrett, would only bring shocked stares and confusion. She’d be turned away, almost certainly. However, after sending Liam with their advert to the Telegraph , she realized a newspaper reporter would be expected to ask questions. Forgiven for it, even.
On her brisk walk across the Thames, she’d honed her false identity. Ignoring the toss of doubt in her stomach, Leo presented herself to the nurse at the front desk, her chin high.
“I’d like to speak to Matron Adams,” she said, citing the name of the nurse who’d signed Hannah’s letter.
“Is Matron expecting you?”
“No, I’m afraid not. My name is Miss Jane Smith from the Daily Telegraph , and I’m writing an article on the city’s inadequate driving regulations, which lead to scores of deaths each year. I’d like to talk to the matron about one such victim, a nurse’s assistant employed here, Miss Hannah Barrett, for my article.”
While it was mostly all a complete fabrication, it was true that far too many traffic accidents each year led to death—Leo and Claude had seen eleven last year in the Spring Street Morgue alone.
The nurse’s disapproving frown softened at Miss Barrett’s name. Sorrow pinched the space between her brows.
“I learned of Hannah’s death yesterday. I was shocked.”
The use of her given name fed Leo some hope. “Were you and Miss Barrett well acquainted?”
This nurse was in her forties or thereabouts, with graying hair drawn back in a severe bun, which she wore under a starched white cap; a standard gray nurse’s uniform with white pinafore completed her ensemble. Her chin wrinkled as she pressed her lips together.
“We’d take tea now and then. She was a sweet young lady.” Her eyes glistened.
“I’ve spoken to Mr. Barrett, her brother,” Leo said. “But I wanted to get a sense of her work and of the things that were important to her. Perhaps a profile on Miss Barrett will inspire regulatory changes for public carriage drivers.”
The nurse nodded vigorously. “It’s a wonderful idea. However, I’m afraid you’ll need an appointment to speak with Matron Adams, as she is quite engaged.”
“If you and Miss Barrett were known to each other, perhaps I could put my questions to you, Nurse…er…?”
The nurse straightened. “Oh. Nurse Wright. Yes, I suppose that couldn’t hurt.”
“Excellent. I understand Miss Barrett was in mourning. Can you tell me more about that?”
The nurse looked to Leo’s empty hands. “Aren’t you going to take notes?”
She hadn’t thought to bring along a pad of paper as most other reporters would have done.
“I won’t need it. I have an excellent memory,” she answered.
The nurse accepted her explanation with a wrinkled brow but then shook her head sadly. “It is the most tragic thing. Hannah was to marry this spring, but then…” She shrugged. “He died.”
Miss Barrett had been mourning her fiancé ?
“When was this?” Leo asked.
“Just days ago. Can you believe it? Hannah was devastated.” Then, lowering her voice, she added, “Some here are saying that she stepped in front of that omnibus on purpose, lost as she was in her grief. Mind you, I don’t think that. I think it more likely she was distracted.”
Leo considered that the fiancé had died only days ago. How very strange. “How did he come to pass?”
Nurse Wright lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. Hannah was quiet about him. I didn’t even know his name. She wouldn’t say.”
That was certainly intriguing. Why would she be so secretive, not just about whom she was going to marry but also how he had died?
“When did you last see Miss Barrett?”
The nurse recalled easily. “Two days ago. The day of the accident.” Her expression darkened. “She was upset, now that I think of it. But when I asked after her, she just said that she and her brother had argued again that morning.”
Leo perked up. “Again?”
“They’d been at odds over Hannah’s beau.”
Now this was truly becoming intriguing.
“Do you recall a necklace Miss Barrett wore? A gold locket?” Leo asked.
The nurse frowned. “Yes, but how does the Telegraph know of it?”
A flare of panic threatened to stain her cheeks with a blush. She’d forgotten for a moment that she was supposed to be a reporter.
“It was mentioned in the morgue report. My editor read there was a clipping of hair inside the locket, and what with Miss Barrett’s mourning clothes, he thought it a possible tragic angle to appeal to readers,” Leo fibbed.
Nurse Wright continued to peer at her skeptically. “I see. Well, yes, she always wore it, as far as I know.”
If that was the case, Mr. Barrett was sure to have noticed it missing by now. It wasn’t so out of the ordinary that he hadn’t realized it at the morgue, especially if he’d been in a state of shock.
There was one last thing that had been on Leo’s mind. “Miss Barrett was carrying a letter of character from Matron Adams when she was struck down,” she said. “Had she been let go from her position here?”
Nurse Wright’s eyes widened. “Begging your pardon, Miss Smith, but I’m not sure why that should be in your article.”
“I’m sure it won’t be. I’m only trying to get a fuller picture of Miss Barrett at the time of her death.” Again, it was a poor excuse. It seemed the nurse thought so too, and she had wearied of Miss Jane Smith’s questions.
“She was a woman in mourning, and yes, Hannah had decided to leave St. Thomas. She wasn’t told to go. But that has nothing to do with unsafe driving regulations, I’m sure.”
Leo forced a grin. “Quite right. Thank you for your time, Nurse Wright.”
She turned to leave, her bootheels clicking swiftly over the marble tiles. Everything about Miss Barrett’s fiancé intrigued her. His mysterious identity, the manner and timing of his death, and that Mr. Barrett had been opposed to him as a match for his sister. And why had Hannah decided to leave the hospital?
At least one thing seemed obvious to Leo as she exited onto Lambeth Road: if Hannah had wanted a letter of character for a future position, she hadn’t planned to step out into traffic to her own demise.
Leo rushed to a cab stand near Westminster Bridge where an omnibus was gathering passengers. She was too pressed for time to go to Spring Street on foot. Claude would be performing the autopsy on the morgue intruder, and Leo wanted to be there in case he needed assistance.
He’d been surprised to learn that the intruder was returning to the morgue, this time as a corpse. She’d told him all about it as soon as she’d arrived home the previous evening, after opening the morgue for Detective Sergeant Lewis and the constables transporting the body. Lewis said that they would collect the victim’s belongings the next day after the coroner had prepared the body.
After seeing them out, Leo had removed the clothing on the corpse herself. She’d long since become immune to the naked flesh of the dead. One body looked much like another. She’d wanted to see if any hidden pockets held anything of importance—specifically, a gold locket. But a thorough search turned up nothing except for some additional ill-designed and crudely done tattoos on his chest and abdomen.
Leo got off at Trafalgar Square, the closest stop to Spring Street, and entered the morgue office through the back door. Immediately, she heard a commotion in the postmortem room. Removing her coat and hat along the way, she walked in to find Aunt Flora, pacing between examination tables. Although she was fully dressed, her long silver hair wasn’t done up as it normally would have been whenever she left the house. Instead, it hung loose around her shoulders. She muttered to herself as she walked forward and back, her widened eyes distrustful. Claude stood watch nearby, hesitating with marked concern.
“Uncle Claude?” Leo approached them slowly. “Where is Mrs. Shaw?” The nurse was supposed to have been watching Flora at the house.
He appeared worn to the bone when he turned to Leo. “She brought your aunt here and left. Apologized, but said she couldn’t stay the rest of the week after all. Apparently, Flora’s treatment of Mrs. Shaw was worse this morning.”
Leo deflated as she put back on her coat and hat. Without Mrs. Shaw, there would be no one to look after Flora. No one, except for Leo.
“Will you be able to handle things here today without me?” she asked.
“Of course, of course.” He laughed softly. “I’ll have to be, won’t I?”
Leo peered at the sheeted body of the intruder, disappointed she’d miss the postmortem. Surely, the results would show that he was killed by the gunshot to his chest. But an examination could turn up much more about the man. Attending her uncle appealed to her far more than spending the day with Flora and managing her fluctuating moods.
“Very well. Come, Aunt Flora.” Leo moved toward her, extending a hand. “Let us walk home, and I’ll fix you some tea.”
Her aunt’s eyes flared. She screamed and whirled away from Leo’s hand. “No! You’re trying to murder me!”
Leo froze to the spot. “Of course, I’m not. I only want to walk you home.”
“Flora, dear.” Claude advanced, but she shuttled backward, colliding with one of the tables.
“Murdered. All murdered!” Flora shouted, her voice bouncing off the high ceilings.
Leo stared, her eyes beginning to water. Somehow, she knew her aunt wasn’t speaking about the bodies around them right then, but about Leo’s family.
“Calm yourself, my dear. No one is murdered,” Claude soothed, managing to successfully take his wife’s arm. She yelped, but then clung to him. She peered out at Leo as if expecting her niece to harm her.
“Murdered, murdered, all but one,” Flora whimpered. “All but her. What did she do? How did she escape?”
A boulder sank through Leo’s stomach. Claude’s spectacles enlarged his eyes as he gave her a pleading look.
“Leonora, I’m so sorry. Your aunt doesn’t know what she is saying.”
Flora whimpered again and buried her head in her husband’s chest.
“I’ll take her home,” he said, patting his wife’s back. “There’s nothing to be done for it. I’ll just have to stay with her until she calms.”
Leo could only nod, her body thrumming with shock and deepening remorse.
“I’ll let Jasper know the postmortem will be delayed,” she said with a hitch in her voice.
As Claude and Flora shuffled from the room, Leo put a hand to her stomach and concentrated on breathing until a dizzying sensation passed. Her aunt couldn’t possibly believe she was to blame for the murders of her family. She’d been a child, for heaven’s sake! Flora had always been a bit distant and, as she’d deteriorated, wary of Leo. However, this outburst was unlike anything she’d expressed before. It took Leo’s breath away that it might be a suspicion her aunt had harbored all this time.
If Flora questioned how her niece had survived, surely others did as well. It wasn’t fair, was it, that Leo had lived while her parents, brother, and sister had not. What made her so special? So lucky? These thoughts had plagued her, and they were the reason Leo had never spoken to anyone about what really happened in the attic that night.
How did she escape? Flora had asked.
The answer had haunted Leo for sixteen years: Someone had helped her.
And she was absolutely certain it had been one of the murderers.